


Summertime

by JaneHudson



Series: Petrae Venetiarum: A Tetralogy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Sansa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Petyr wants to fix that, Sansa is really repressed, Sansa-centric, inexperienced woman/experienced man, lots of unsubtle symbolism, pursuer and pursued, the chase is the best foreplay, this is the prologue to the smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-24 14:58:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneHudson/pseuds/JaneHudson
Summary: Sansa and Petyr play a strange, supernatural game of cat-and-mouse amid the streets and buildings of Venice. Petyr hopes Sansa will eventually realize that if she 'loses,' she will actually win.Ch. 3: Sansa decides to take back control from the strange man who has been chasing her over land and under sea. Please note there's one swear word and a couple of references to some family deaths (this is a Stark-related fic, after all).





	1. The Drawing Room of Europe

Despite the fact that Venice was in the grip of heat that withered everything from makeup to gelato, Sansa was still convinced Piazza San Marco was the most wonderful place she had ever seen.

It was framed by pale facades of columns and arches. Throngs of happy, silly people decorated its tableau, taking pictures, bothering the pigeons, and buying silly little tchotchkes. The mosaics glittered in the sun. The great blue and gold clock kept a different, more cosmic time, setting a tempo that allowed a mind to dream and wander, save for the moments when the booming bells of the campanile temporarily recalled everyone to the present. 

And then there was the music! Mere pictures hadn’t prepared her for the glory of the caffès and the music. She didn’t even know how long she’d been sitting out here, listening to the music, gazing at the basilica and the bell tower and the delicate, lace-like arches of the Palazzo Ducale. When she saw the first couple get up to dance, a new dreamsong started in her heart.

Sansa imagined her simple white linen dress, which stuck to her in the heat, transformed into a ballgown. She imagined what some of the handsome waiters might look like in tailcoats or military uniforms. Her simple glass of wine and the little tray of savories transfigured into champagne and the most elegant dessert. And the orchestra played a waltz, a proper Viennese waltz. Sansa could feel herself twirling around this grand, open-air ballroom, gracefully gliding over the dangerous stones, guided by a skilled and sophisticated man.

Sansa had never felt so serene, so whole, so…

Watched? 

Even now, in her thirties, she was still considered shockingly beautiful, so Sansa Stark was well-accustomed to the feeling of unwanted eyes. But this was one step beyond.

She tore herself away from the daydream of tuxedos and gowns, of jewels and waltzes and champagne, of _fin-de-siècle_ courtesies and grace, and pulled out her thrice-damned phone.

She didn’t have to “check her hair” for long.

He was leering at her legs, absentmindedly running his finger up and down his rather angular face, no doubt mimicking what he wanted to do to her. Sansa was shocked by his brazenness. His hair was darkest steel grey, to match the full three-piece suit and tie he wore, even in this weather. At first glance he was that handsome, older type that Sansa had kind of always liked, but she sensed something incredibly sinister in his darkness, which threatened to consume the creams and golds and pinks of her newly-discovered summertime fantasia.

His eyes darted up and fixed upon the screen of her phone. The slightest hint of a smile—a triumphant smile?—crept across his lips.

He shifted like he was going to get up, and Sansa quickly tilted the empty chair on her left down against the table. She kept her phone open to see if he would react.

He gently shrugged his shoulders and indicated a chair at his table with what appeared to be a delicate, bejeweled hand.

Sansa’s pulse quickened and her breath became shallow. What he meant to do to her she did not know, but that he meant to do something to her was certain. Her whole body broke out in sweat. She took a €100 note from her purse, left it on the table, and tried to walk away gracefully, like nothing was wrong.

The arcade of the Palazzo was crowded with people seeking relief in its shade, so Sansa made her way in that direction. She knew she couldn’t really get lost in a crowd—her height and her hair had made it easy for men to track her all her life—but she had to try.

And yet, when she emerged back into the sun, she appeared to be alone. She allowed her body to relax as she approached the two great columns that gave way to the sea. She allowed herself to pause in the shadow of the lion, to let the gentle breeze cool her, to recover her peace, to--

Feel his eyes again.

She turned around, and there he was. She could now see that he was short, which gave him the advantage in the chase. The water beckoned right in front of her, and, for a moment, she felt like the unicorns who had been chased by the Red Bull in that movie she had loved as a little girl.

Her mind retreated into dark fantasies in a desperate attempt to cope with the overwhelming fear. If she went into the water, could she get to the church of white and silver and blue that loomed on the other side, with its beckoning arms that promised holy sanctuary? Or would she be consumed?  

Why couldn’t she be like the brave unicorn who had challenged the Red Bull?

_Because he’s not the Red Bull. He’s the Red Bull’s master. Run, Sansa, run!_

Sansa turned away from the lion, toward the crocodile, and fled for her life.

She struggled against wave after wave of day trippers from those ugly cruise ships. Sansa shuddered to hear them grunt as they greedily guzzled from their water bottles and spoke in loud voices.  

Sansa tried to keep as close to the Grand Canal as possible in the hopes of finding a crossing that would let her get to the church, but the streets and bridges seemed to lead her deeper into the labyrinth of the city. The lines of perspective began to tremble: pathways that seemed straight turned into stone walls, and dead ends opened up into bridges and _campi._

No matter how many turns she took, she could not shake him, but she didn’t let herself stop. The woman she was would cease to exist if he caught her.

No one around her seemed to notice her distress. Herds of tourists followed umbrellas and lovers took selfies, oblivious to her misery. In the distance, she could hear gondoliers pitching their wares.

_Gondoliers! The water!_

She followed their voices and nearly burst into joyous tears when she came to the wide wooden bridge. She dropped her armor, shoving her way through all the people trying to take selfies. (What was the point, in ugly traveling clothes that had been prized for their efficiency in the heat rather than their beauty?)

He was still behind her, pushing through the same peasantry, but she didn’t care. The beautiful silver-haired church beckoned. Soon, sanctuary would be hers.

The way was clearer on this side of the water, and she knew the power of the Holy Mother herself was drawing her toward that church, where she would find a woman’s protection from this dangerous man.

She almost cried out when she came to the final bridge. The church was even more magnificent up close: it glowed in the setting sun, and the huge figures that adorned the façade told her they would protect her.

She let herself in through a great green door. Her eyes had to adjust to the shadows, as the church was ringed by a prominent ambulatory. Sansa peered into the dim light to make sure no one was hiding behind the columns. She was a bit surprised that no one else seemed to be in the church. It had been swarming with tourists outside, and she had sworn that she’d held the door open for someone.

Satisfied that no dangers lurked in the shadows, she swept her eyes over the great mosaic floor in the magnificent central space.

Sansa had seen pictures. This space was supposed to be empty. But it wasn’t, and she could feel her spirit start to crumble.

In the dead center of the church, right underneath the apex of the highest dome, was a great wooden bed, piled high with the most elaborate sheets and blankets Sansa had ever seen. Not even the greatest old rooms in her family’s great old house were so adorned. Purple velvet was piled on burgundy and navy silk, which covered sheets made of cloth-of-gold. A light seemed to glow from a central, unknowable source.

Sansa was so drawn to its beauty, its comfort—its luxury. She took a tentative step out into the light. She hesitated when another pair of footsteps echoed across the marble floor, and she froze when he emerged from behind the carved headboard.

He used one of his delicate hands to gently turn down the silk and velvet blankets. Sansa was as afraid as she’d ever been, but that fear was competing with something else. The darkness of his suit and his hair—which she could now see had silver to match the gold of the bed—was magnetic.

_Sexy._

She banished the thought.

“Come to me,” he said. His voice was deep and ancient, full of knowledge.

“Please,” he said. “You’ll be so safe, I promise.” He ran his hand over the bed. “It will feel so good.”

Sansa wanted to feel good. She had made herself clothes of silk and velvet, but somehow she knew the bed would feel better. She took another step. And then another.

He was smiling that triumphant smile again. Sansa looked down and realized the dying daylight was passing through the linen of her dress in a way that was…revelatory.

She breathed in sharply and tried to shake sense back into herself. What was she doing? Letting herself be led to her own destruction!

“No,” she said. “I won’t.”  
  
He didn’t respond. He just remained there, stroking the bed and smiling.

She forced her eyes to close so she could break his spell. She turned herself around, and ran for the door as fast as she could. She ran alongside the façade of the church until she came to a bridge. By some great blessing, the bridge led to a fondamenta that didn’t seem to end or fork off or threaten to cast her into some inescapable dead-end. She did not let herself stop.

The air became hotter and heavier with every breath, and her clothes were so sodden with sweat that she felt twenty pounds heavier. Eventually, she realized that only one set of footsteps was echoing on the stone. She stopped, gasping and desperate for breath, not even caring that the air was suffused with heat and moisture and felt clammy in her chest.

She let herself look around. She was completely alone. Silence had never been so magnificent.

She had no idea where she was. To her right was an enormous canal, much bigger than the one she’d had to cross earlier. She could see no bridge to the land on the other side, which was dominated by an imposing, severe, white-clad church. She’d have to go the other way. When she turned around, she was confronted by rows of facades that were separated by narrow streets. She breathed deeply. Somehow, those streets would take her home.

But first, Sansa would rest. She leaned against one of the facades, anticipating that the stone would be deliciously cool. Instead, it was damp and rough against her skin and clothes.

She was about to peel herself off the building, when her pursuer materialized next to her, seemingly  _ex nihilo_. For the first time, she got a good look at his eyes. They were the color of mercury, and full of the sorts of promises Sansa had been afraid of her entire life.

“That’s no place for a lady like you. Please, won’t you come with me?”

“No! _No!_ ” shrieked Sansa, who was on the verge of tears. She looked around. There was no one to save her. He was blocking the street that could take her back. The fighter in her begged her to try one of the other streets, but a sadder voice conceded that he’d just find a way to block them as well.

There was no escape.

At least not on land.

Sansa ran to the edge of the fondamenta and looked down. The water was repulsive. It was brackish and smelled stale, like everything else did in this heat. But, there were no bridges here and Sansa didn’t think he’d follow her into the water. She didn’t know how she knew this, but she knew the strange man drew his malevolent power from the earthen world—from brick and dirt and, especially, stone.  

She took one more look at the stern, unforgiving white façade that gleamed across the water.

“Save me,” she whispered, as she closed her eyes and plunged forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time I'm done with this entire fic project, I'll have racked up as much debt to other authors and artists as Cersei did to the Iron Bank. This opening chapter (and the first part of the tetralogy as a whole) is largely indebted to David Lean's 1955 film _Summertime_ and the 1982 animated classic _The Last Unicorn_.
> 
> (One final and extremely pedantic a/n: this is part of a larger series I've decided to call Petrae Venetiarum. I used that title instead of Petrae Venetiae because most of the examples I found from Renaissance and early modern authors used "Venetiarum" instead of "Venetiae" for the genitive, even when speaking simply of "Venice" as a singular instead of "the Venetians" as a plural. If anyone here happens to have expertise and can either confirm or correct me, I'd be grateful.)


	2. Redentore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr continues to pursue Sansa through a Venice that is becoming increasingly surreal. 
> 
> Please note there are some very light elements of dubious consent in this chapter.

Sansa kept her eyes on the austere white church for as long as she could, but when the first noseful of salty, exhausted, overheated water hit her, she reflexively closed them as she prepared to be drenched. 

But she didn’t hit water. She hit something hard.

She opened her eyes to find that she was hovering just above the water. Although she could see nothing between herself and the rolling current, there was clearly something there. It was unsteady, and moved from side to side, but it was keeping her dry.

Slowly, she pivoted herself around to see if the man was still on the fondamenta behind her. A lamp shone on the spot, giving the facades a queer glow and darkening the tiny alleys. She didn’t see him at first, but that didn’t make her feel safe. It would be easy for him to hide in the shadows.

Sansa stared for some time, and, when she was satisfied that he was not there, she turned about to face the white church again.

There was no elegance it in, but Sansa decided it would be safer to crawl so she could feel ahead with her hands. She inched her way across the expanse of water, focusing on the grand classical pediment of the white church so she wouldn’t feel sick or dizzy.

Her dress was soaked through by water and sweat. Gods, it was still brutally hot, even though it had been dark for hours. There had been an anemic, warm breeze whistling above her for some time, but it hadn’t seemed worth standing up for until now.

She made herself crawl to the halfway point before she let herself stand. The breeze was pathetic, but in the moment it was as refreshing as the first crisp wind of autumn.

Satisfied that she was truly alone, Sansa let herself look around. It really was sort of magnificent. Here she was, walking on water under the stars. Behind her, silvery Salute, where she had made her escape earlier, stood watch over the entrance to the Grand Canal. The white church and a boardwalk lined with beautiful yellow lanterns was directly ahead. Off to one side, the dome of San Giorgio glowed, beckoning weary travelers seeking shelter from the dark sea. San Marco was to her left. Even from here, she could see the outline of the imposing columns and the elegant, rose-tinted streetlights. She swore she heard the faint strains of a string quartet.

The wind had picked up a little and now her red hair and white skirt fluttered. 

She wondered if Venice could really be real.

The perfection of the moment was utterly shattered when the sky exploded. Rockets—colored rockets of all colors—blew up above her head. Sansa could barely wrap her mind around what was happening. Had the world finally succumbed to war? Even here? She was so frightened she almost fell into the water. She gripped the invisible bridge, which was swaying quite violently now. 

The variegated lights allowed her to see below the surface.

She screamed.

There was a _woman_ under the waves. The woman reached up toward Sansa, but when Sansa went to put a hand in the water to pull her out, a man rose up from the depths and pulled her back down. Sansa knew the look of sadness and desperation in the woman’s face as she faded into the blackness would haunt her forever.

She was almost hysterical at this point. The sky was still exploding, the invisible bridge was violently shaking, and she had just seen--well, she didn't even know what she'd just seen. She sat on the bridge to try and steady herself, but the rockets still crackled overhead and everything shook like it was on the verge of crumbling back into the sea. 

Then, there was a great horn blast, and the rockets stopped as suddenly as they had started.

It was soon followed by a second blast, and Sansa tried to find the source. Soon she was able to make out a boat in the darkness. It was rather large. Oars, manned by an unseen crew, propelled it toward her. It appeared as though it was made entirely of gold, and it bore a banner that she could not make out.

Trembling, she stood up to wave them down. The boat maneuvered up next to the invisible bridge, and she could make out a figure moving toward her in the darkness. The figure offered her his hand. 

She almost took it. 

When she saw his eyes, she jerked her hand back. She had to avert her eyes to avoid contact with his. Sansa didn't like how his quicksilver eyes made her feel. He had what her late mother would have called a Trickster’s face. His eyes spoke of a thousand plans and a thousand directions that he could pursue on the spur of the moment. Sansa knew to beware the Trickster, who was the most dangerous figure in any mythical story because of how changeable he was.

_Like changing from a man in a modern suit to—whatever he is now._

He looked like a noble from a painting. He was wearing a heavily embroidered maroon and gold overcoat. Sansa was sure she had never seen work so fine, even in museums. It was long, and bedecked with pearls.

But not even pearls could soften his threat. No, she would not give him her hand.

After some period of silence, he finally said, “You’re trapped. You’re terribly frightened. You’re drenched. I can bring you back to the shore in the comfort and beauty that you deserve. Please, I promise you will be safe.”

She shook her head no.

_Safe? What sort of fool do you take me for?_

The strange man offered his hand to her again. Sansa was about to panic, as she had no real means of escape, but then she caught a glint of a boat with silver prow. 

An unseen voice called out from the darkness:

“Miss, can I help you?”

Neither Sansa nor the strange man had seen the gondola slink up next to the barge. It was being piloted by a man who appeared to be young. He was dressed in black and wore one of those Carnivale-style masks Sansa had seen in the shops.

“Quickly, Miss!”

The strange man on the barge attempted to grab her hand, but she snatched it away just in time and darted toward the gondolier. She thought she heard the strange man laugh and say something like, “Very well,” but she was took focused on the gondolier to take proper note of it. The masked man lightly grasped her hand as he helped her into the narrow, black boat. Sansa was surprised by how steady it was.

The young man used his oar to push off on the unseen bridge and began to paddle toward the white church with as much force as he could muster. Sansa could hear the man with steel grey hair ordering his ship to pursue them.

“Don’t worry, Miss. It’s too big.” said the masked man. “He’ll never maneuver fast enough to beat us.”

“Beat us to where?”

“Look ahead.”

At first, Sansa could see little other than the light reflecting off the white church, but eventually her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw the entrance to the small canal. Before she knew it, they were passing into the canal, right past the beautiful church.

“He cannot follow us here, Miss. The Bucintoro can’t access this canal.”

The sense of terror began to fade away. Sansa knew this man was so young that she appeared old to his eyes. That meant she didn’t have to be afraid of him. She leaned back into the ample cushion of the seat, enjoying the peaceful rhythm created by his oar. 

Finally, she decided to ask about the rockets in the sky. 

“The rockets? Miss, the rockets sound whenever we celebrate redemption.”

“My redemption?”

“I imagine so. That’s why I was sent.”

“So, I am saved from danger?”

“Yes, Miss.”

Sansa had never felt triumph like this before. She somehow knew that the strange man was not used to being defeated. And to have been defeated by the likes of her? Even she had to admit that was a bit embarrassing.

She chuckled to herself and let the blackness of the gondola and the water wash over her as they sailed east.

It was still dark when her redeemer pulled up to a dock.

“This should be about right, Miss.”

Sansa nodded, and he helped her out of the gondola. It felt good to have visible ground underneath her feet. 

“Does this feel right?”

Sansa considered his question and decided that it did feel right. She nodded.

He took her hand and pulled it toward his lips, but did not kiss it. _Just like a proper gentleman._

“Be careful, Miss” he said.

Before she could ask him to explain, he turned away from her, pushed off with his oar, and began to paddle back in the direction of the campanile.

Sansa walked up the pier and found herself facing a paved, modern road. The sky around her was silvery grey now—the sun would be coming soon—and a few early risers skittered up and down the road on Vespas. 

Sansa started to walk up the sidewalk, toward the first blue and gold tendrils of dawn. She was so thankful the gondolier had brought her here. There were restaurants and regular houses and even something that looked like it could be a small office building. And the street was broad—no terrors could hide here.

She decided she’d walk until she found  an open restaurant. She was hungry. 

It still must have been quite early, because nothing was open. But it was no matter. Sansa was just happy for the growing dawn. There was safety in light.

Eventually, she saw signs on the wide boulevard for a beach. It wasn't hard to find at all. In fact, it was quite close to the road. Sansa liked that. It made her feel even safer. 

She also liked that she was alone. Well—almost alone. Someone was sitting in a lounge chair. If the style of the hat, which had a jaunty navy and red band, was any indication, it was probably some sweet old man.

She walked over to say hello. She liked old men. They were courteous and charming to her, but they never scared her.

Unfortunately, the man in the lounger was not old.

Sansa tried to scream, but couldn’t. _How? How could it be? The gondolier said I was saved!_  

The stranger was, indeed, wearing the type of linen summer suit that had been all the rage nearly a century ago. Sansa had vague memories of pictures of her great-grandfather in such a suit, pictures that had probably had pride of place in the great family home, before they had been forced to sell it.

The morning sun lit his face, making it softer than it had appeared in the evening. He didn’t feel quite as dangerous now, and Sansa couldn’t help but admire how well that suit fit him. She also couldn’t help admitting that the contrast between his bright red tie and his eyes, which shone green and grey in the light of dawn, was most pleasing. Or that he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen.

He patted his lap. “Won’t you sit and enjoy the sunrise with me?”

Sansa came back into herself. She was appalled by such a lewd suggestion and backed away from him, admonishing him to stay away from her. A part of her wondered why he was obeying her. They were alone, after all. What would she be able to do?  

The sensation of water against her bare leg came as a surprise. She hadn’t realized the sea was so close. She took a few more steps, refusing to stop until the Adriatic was nearly at her knees.

He still didn’t move.

She was so ashamed by her cowardice. _You’ve been driven into the sea, like a naïve unicorn, and he's not even doing anything_.

Sansa had had enough. It was time to get answers from this strange man. She tried to take a step toward him, but was confounded by a mass of fabric. She looked at herself and realized that her light linen dress was now a heavy white Edwardian gown—a perfect match to his suit.

She _had_ to find out what on earth was going on. She lurched forward again, but made no progress.

_Oh gods! I can’t move!_

The dress—the awful, heavy gown—was weighed down with water and sand and it was pulling her into the sea. Sansa tried to get a foothold in the sand, but it did nothing but give way under her, making her sink even further. 

The man was still sitting in the lounger, just staring at her.

“Please, sir” she cried out, “help me! I’m sorry I’ve been so rude to you! Help me!”

She could see him lean forward, but he didn’t get up. Instead, he called back to her: “You wish me to come to you, my dear?”

Sansa hadn’t known until that moment that you could feel a smirk without actually being able to see it on the other person’s face.

“Sir, _please_!” she shouted. “I’m getting dragged out to sea!”

He sprang from the chair and advanced on her with a surprising amount of grace, given the morning heat and his tailored suit.

A particularly insistent wave crashed over Sansa’s legs, nearly dragging her down to her knees. But he was almost there. She stretched her hand out toward him.

He ignored it, choosing to seize her by the waist instead. She flung her arms around his shoulders, hoping it would make it easier for him, as he really was quite slight. He responded by gripping her even harder, but he didn’t move. Instead, he gently traced a finger down her back. Sansa didn’t even realize she had been responding by holding him tighter until she felt his growing smile against her cheek.

His lips were right next to her ear, and he began to murmur all sorts of strange promises to her. 

“Can’t you tell it’s going to feel wonderful?”

“Will it?” said Sansa.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Wh--?”

He was walking into the sea! Sansa began to struggle against him, but the dress was so heavy and he held her so securely in his arms.

“What are you doing?!” she screamed, “Gods, gods, what are you doing? We’ll drown!”

The man paid no mind to her protests. He just kept on whispering in her ear about the pleasures she would soon know.

“I don’t want to know pleasure! I just want to be safe! Please, stop!" 

Sansa kept screaming, but no one was around to hear.  

The water was at her waist now, and the waves were cresting up to her breasts. She was proud of herself for still struggling, still fighting, still screaming for help—even though it was pointless.

When the first wave crashed over her head, making her hair stringy, making her cough, she began to gently cry into his shoulder. In the meekest voice she could muster, she begged him one last time to stop. She promised him she would go with him, she would do whatever he wanted, she wouldn’t tell anyone about the things he’d done.

Her pleas went unanswered. It wasn’t long before the water completely overwhelmed her.

He still had a firm grip on her. She wasn’t going to get away.

Sansa was surprised by how painless it all was. She had heard the worst things about drowning, but this wasn’t so bad. It simply felt like she was dissolving in prepartion for rejoining the great primordial sea from which all life had come.

She took a deep breath of accepta—

_A deep breath?_

Yes, she was breathing. She turned to look at her captor, and he laughed at the expression on her face. 

“I said you would be safe,” he said, moving some of her floating hair out of her face. “You are safe, and we’re going to have the most wonderful time.”

Sansa’s fighting spirit flooded back into her and she tried once again to get away. It truly was no use—he was so much stronger than his stature suggested. They kept on descending.

_At least the water is cooler now._

As the dawn’s light faded further and further away from her grasp, she was overcome by a sense of resignation.

 _I guess I will be the one reaching up toward the surface now._

It was as though he could read her mind. His arms tightened and his breath caused currents of water to vibrate against the back of her neck.

Sansa closed her eyes and made a sound that she couldn’t ever recall herself making.

He started to talk to her again, in the most gentle voice.

“I’m so glad that felt good to you.”

It had felt good. Very good. She was ashamed.

_Get away, Sansa. You have to get away!_

She tried to kick him, but her legs just got tangled in the wretched dress. She tried to pry herself from his arms one last time, but to no avail.

He turned her toward him so that she could look into his eyes and he could stroke her cheek. He leaned in until their lips were almost touching so he could speak to her in the softest whisper.

“I know you don’t really want to go back up there. And that’s why I’ll never let you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Debts are owed to the works for the previous chapter, plus E.T.A. Hoffman's "Doge und Dogaressa," Thomas Mann's novella _Death in Venice_ , and Luchino Visconti's 1971 filmed version of Mann's work.
> 
> The first part of the chapter is my odd way of paying tribute to a visit I made a few years ago during a particularly hot and humid Festa del Redentore. For this celebration, the Venetians build a pontoon bridge across the Canale della Giudecca (which does not have a permanent foot crossing) so people can walk to Il Redentore ("the white church"). There's also a big fireworks show.


	3. The Azure Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa decides to take back control from the strange man who has been chasing her over land and under sea.
> 
> Please note there's one swear word and a couple of references to some family deaths (this is a Stark-related fic, after all).

Awful, mechanical-sounding gibberish flooded Sansa’s mind. 

She opened her eyes and started to remember. She wasn’t being dragged down into sodden depths. She was high above the earth, and the air was so dry.

Fortunately, as the purser finished her German-language announcement, another flight attendant presented her with a breakfast tray that included a cup of juice. Sansa drank quickly and picked at the food. She was still too shaken by her bad dream.

_I don’t suppose I could tell them to turn this plane around, could I? Maybe I could change my connecting flight?_

Sansa looked at her reflection in the flight map screen and scowled.

_Like you would ever._

They’d be landing in about thirty minutes. Reflexively, Sansa pulled a small cosmetics pouch out of the front seat pocket and got in line for the lavatory. Fifteen minutes later, she put the cosmetics pouch back in the satchel she kept overhead, exchanging it for a passport. She checked that it was the correct one as she sat back down and took out the package of gum that had been placed in that exact spot for this exact purpose nearly nine hours ago.

The entire process of getting off the plane and going through passport control was marked by the type of calmness and efficiency that one might hope for from Lufthansa and the Munich Airport. Sansa had plenty of time before her connection and took a seat by a large window.

The morning light was neither too bright nor too dim. The color palette of the airport was pleasantly muted and there was little noise. Munich was the sanatorium of European airports.

 _I should just vacation here_. 

How had she let Marg plant this suggestion in her mind? Being in Europe was always disquieting. She liked living in America because to be American was to be able to be forgetful. To be fair, that particular national quirk had led to a lot of problems on a world historical level, but on the individual level of being Sansa Stark, forgetfulness was actually pretty fucking nice.

Europe always seemed to be laughing at her and reminding her that it remembered what she really was: Lady Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of the 13th Earl and Countess of Cleveland.

She stared out at the calm, pale Bavarian morning. _It was never supposed to be like that._

Her sober and honorable father Eddard had been the spare, not the heir. Unfortunately, his older brother Brandon had been the stereotypical aristocratic Harrow nightmare, the chum and chief enabler of the infamous 7th Marquess of Bristol. Like his more charismatic friend John, dear Uncle Brandon had spent virtually the entire family fortune, even going so far as to cede the family seat, Winterfell, in pursuit of sex, drugs, and God knows what else.

Uncle Brandon was dead before forty. Sansa had been six when they all moved into a small cottage on their ancestral estate, in sight of the main house itself. Robb had told her that they didn’t own Winterfell any longer, but that the government let them live on the grounds because of father’s war record. Oh yes, father had been a great warrior.

Sansa knew it was wicked of her to feel this way, but she resented the fact that he’d been there for the birth of all his children, save her. When it had been her moment, he’d been away fighting for Her Majesty in the Falklands. Lady Catelyn had brought Sansa into this world all on her own.  

She knew this was childish. Father believed war service was his only avenue for restoring the reputation his brother destroyed. That was why he’d trooped off to Kuwait, too. It had been tense at home because Rickon had been born only weeks before he left and mother was tired and Robb was at school and Arya and Bran were too young to help with most of the chores. But it hadn’t been too long until he came back with more honors. It was around this time that she first began to overhear her parents talking about maybe moving back into the North Wing. 

That dream died somewhere near Sarajevo, where Eddard Stark was killed by a sniper. Like his brother, he was in the grave before forty. Robb was now Earl, even though he wasn’t even eighteen. He had never _not_ planned to eventually end up at Sandhurst, but it became his twin obsession, along with getting back the house. Sansa looked back on that time with some bitterness: how many hours had Robb and mother spent locked away talking about the best way to get back into Winterfell? How many hours had Sansa spent caring for her younger siblings, telling them that mother would see them soon?

There had been a big event at Winterfell right before Robb left for Afghanistan. Sansa had the newspaper somewhere, Robb standing in front of grim looking oil portraits of humorless men in British Expeditionary Force uniforms, surrounded by elaborate furniture and other things that she was apparently supposed to feel desperately connected to. 

He’d phoned her later that day to tell her that, for the first time, he felt like he belonged in the great house—like he was a real Stark.

Less than a year later, he was dead at 26, blown up by a mine. Mother had passed not long after. Had that been her last visit to Europe? For the funeral?

Sansa drew in a jagged breath and fought off tears. She had to stay calm and nondescript. Anything else would invite attention, the one thing in all the world she wished to avoid.

Unfortunately, she could feel eyes upon her. Like all beautiful women, she had learned how to feel eyes. She made herself go perfectly still and imagined plating herself with a metal shell. For whatever reason, that mental exercise had always allowed her to channel the “back off” vibe that was her chief survival mechanism.

It was tense for a moment, but she felt the eyes relent and turn away. She scooped up her carry-ons and moved toward her gate, using columns and dividers to obscure herself.

The flight was not very full and Sansa had her own row. Marg had told her to sit by the window. She’d said the scenery was pretty.

Not long after take-off, Sansa realized Margaery hadn’t been kidding. At first, they’d flown over the most picturesque countryside—green rolling hills, pretty rows that would be blooming in the spring, and little red barns. Sansa could practically taste tangy apples and cold wheat beer. But, they’d left the farms behind rather quickly, as the plane soon punctured the cloud cover. Now the sky was clear and blue, and she had to get out her sunglasses so she could look at the brilliant, snow-capped peaks of the Alps. They were in a wonderful, suspended peace.

She closed her eyes and began to fantasize in the way that some unattached women of her age were wont to do. She pulled from her dream and from her books to conjure up Piazza San Marco again. The music was playing, the summer sun—not too hot this time—warmed her shoulders, and the handsome, mercury-eyed man was sitting at the table with her, splitting a bottle of wine.

He reached out to take her hand. His own hand was quite delicate and reflected his energy, which was a magnetic melding of arch-feminine and arch-masculine. He wore two expensive rings, and a fine watch peeked out from under the cuff of a well-fitted shirt.

The warmth of his skin felt good against her own, but when he tried to pull her hand toward him, she resisted. 

“That’s not how it works,” she said.

“Is that so?”

“I’m awake. I am in control of the little daydreams of my mind now. You’ll behave as I want you to.”

His eyes glinted and he raised his glass in a mock toast.  

“To safety.”

Sansa folded her arms tightly against her chest.

The stranger looked down and fiddled with the buttons on his summer suit. “Would you forgive me if I asked you to dance?”

Right on cue, the band began to play Sansa’s favorite, the Masquerade Waltz. Khachaturian’s overfull, sensuous composition was perfect: as hot as the summer breeze that tickled Sansa’s collarbone.

He took her hand, barely touching it (which was more exciting to Sansa that just being grabbed could ever be), and drew her to him, slowly, appropriately, like a gentleman. He put his hand on her back and Sansa shivered. She could tell he was about to smile in triumph, so she shook her head to put him back in his place.

Then she put her hand on his shoulder. She was surprised by how firm it was. His face was so fine and delicate—she wanted to tell him he was _pretty,_ but she felt he’d be hurt—that she hadn’t expected his arm to feel strong.

She really liked how it felt: strong enough to make her feel like an old-fashioned lady, but not so strong that she couldn’t defend herself if he tried to hurt her.

He took her hand more tightly and led her into the first step. He was perfectly graceful—this was her fantasy, after all—and Sansa allowed herself to relax and truly move with the music. She couldn’t stop staring into his eyes. They were a little greener now, probably because Sansa thought green-eyed and dark-haired men were the most beautiful.

For the briefest moment, Sansa allowed herself to return to reality. There were still bright mountain peaks and blue skies for as far as she could see. Good.

With another breath, she was back in the piazza, but now it was just her and the strange man and the pretty buildings. All the other people were gone, and even the music itself came from some invisible source.

Sansa leaned down so she could whisper in his ear.

“You can move your hand up if you want.”

“If I want,” he said, so quietly that it was almost like he was talking to himself. He began to snake his hand up the back bodice of her dress, and when his fingers reached her bare skin, he began to gently trace. Sometimes he pressed the back of her dress into her skin, and combination of the cool silk lining and his fingers gave her goosebumps.

Before long, they had stopped properly waltzing. Instead, they gently swayed while they traced one another’s shoulders. After a few minutes, Sansa let him lean his cheek on her other bare shoulder. She liked how his beard tickled, and she started to run her fingers through his hair. 

“I wish my hair felt this silky,” she said, as she rested her chin on him. She felt him laugh a little in response.

They swayed just a little more, and then Sansa let the mountains—were they the Dolomites now?—come back into view for a moment while she conjured a new scene. It was night now, and the water was nearly as black as the sky. The silver church, Salute, was behind them, but they stood under a square archway surrounded by columns and crowned with a golden ball. They were both dressed for evening. He was in a full tuxedo and she wore a black chiffon gown with a low back. The water’s edge was close.

“May I hold you close to keep you safe?” he asked.

Sansa relaxed her body ever so slightly in response, and he pulled her into him. She could feel the satin of his lapels against her bare back and it was wonderful. She leaned in even more as the evening summer breeze drove the water over the pavement and close to her satin slippers. 

“May I kiss your shoulders?” 

“Politeness will get you everywhere.”

His kisses were firmer than his touches. She could feel her skin give as he pressed his lips into her over and over again. Her body was heating up, and it had nothing to do with summer. He could sense her warmth, he could feel how her breaths were getting deeper, how her hands were beginning to fidget. He was more wanton—she could feel his tongue and his teeth. His teeth!

Sansa arched her back so he could get right at the nape of her neck. She was not prepared for how pleasurable it felt to be kissed there and she gasped. Again, she felt him smile, but he did not speak. He just kept kissing her.

Sansa grasped his hands and let a bit of happiness wash over her. Stars were starting to appear in the sky now, glistening against the gentle waves of the water, which came so close, but could not truly threaten them.

When she had her fill, she gently extricated herself from his arms.

He play-pouted and lightly took her hand again. “That cannot be all you desire, my sweet lady. Can’t you see that I am completely in your control? Every pleasure I bring you—even the forbidden ones—will be safe.”

Sansa didn’t know how he’d managed to pull her so close without her permission. His lips were not even inches away. All she had to do was give in.

_Never!_

She took a step back, barely missing the lapping water. “No, this is perfect. Everything you’ve given me already is perfectly delicious and exotic.”

Kisses felt exotic? That was—that was actually sort of sad.

Her stranger moved toward her, pinning her between himself at the water. But, all he did was stroke her hair. “What a peculiar woman you are.”

“I’m peculiar?” Sansa laughed. “You’re the one whose fantasy world had us both drowning—but not really—in some weird sea-kingdom, but I’m the oddball?”

“Oh, was that fantasy about drowning mine?”

“It wasn’t mine!”

He smirked and flashed his eyebrows at her.

She was about to remind him of his place when she felt her entire body shake. The descent had begun. The false summer was gone and they were back under the clouds of early winter. Sansa looked out her window. The _terrafirma_ was starting to disintegrate into the countless tiny shards that made up the Venetian lagoon. 

Lots of water, only a few bits of land for safety, and strangers—possibly handsome ones—all around. 

Sansa would have to be careful. She began to repeat the words she chose for herself back in college, the ones Isabella D’Este had made Mantegna paint on her wall: _Nec spe nec metu._

She _could not_ stray from the path.

Of course it wasn’t the happiest path, but what did that matter? There was no happy path for her. She had to make sure it didn’t get worse, which meant, above all, laying low. Being the forgotten relative who lived in American exile was fine with her. Anything to avoid being asked to serve the family in the only way she suspected her older relatives thought “simple Sansa” was fit to serve—by being married off to some awful grasper who would purchase her with promises of money for Winterfell.

Sansa had concealed herself for years and she would let nothing drag her from her hiding place in the vast nothing between hope and fear. No kiss or gentle touch was worth risking her safety and freedom.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the somewhat open-ended conclusion to this somewhat odd little piece. I wanted it to be a bit more stand-alone, but it really is a prologue for the second piece in this four-part series, which tells the tale of Sansa's winter vacation in Venice. I'm sure you'll never guess who she meets or what they get up to... ;)
> 
> My major debt here in terms of references is to the ultra-problematic Ezra Pound's Canto III.
> 
> erratum: For the first few hours this was posted, I had incorrectly referred to the 7th Marquess of Bristol as Victor; he was the 6th Marquess. The text now correctly identifies the 7th Marquess as John Hervey.


End file.
